


Fire Within the Heart

by swimmingwolf59



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, References of violent historical events, Snake Crowley, in the style of the beginning of episode 3, slow burn if you count that it spans over thousands of years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21777472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingwolf59/pseuds/swimmingwolf59
Summary: Crowley has a hard time maintaining his human form when it gets too cold. Aziraphale finds himself helping him with this problem more times than he would've thought.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 150





	Fire Within the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching fruits basket one day and the Ayame episode came on, where he shifts into a snake if he gets too cold. And because my pea brain is only ever thinking of good omens, I was like huh…what if that was true for Crowley, too?
> 
> And this was born.
> 
> HUGE thanks to my friend Diana for researching where Aziraphale and Crowley might have ended up in history that was cold. All of the historical facts in this would’ve been impossible without her. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Enjoy!

**_218 BC – Somewhere in the Alps_ **

Winter is a hard season for Crawly.

Aziraphale discovers this the hard way one blistery evening in the Alps. Hannibal is allowing his demoralized troops a much-needed rest in the pass now that the Centrones have been defeated, something Aziraphale may or may not have discreetly suggested to him earlier. He’d been sent to ensure Carthage’s victory against Rome, as the Roman Empire is destined to do some truly awful things to Her followers, but he figures some small miracles to help the soldiers can’t hurt. No one has to know that there’s miraculously more supplies than there was just a second ago.

As Aziraphale enters the camp atop an elephant, he’s surprised to recognize Crawly riding another elephant in front of him. He debates what to do – his job always entitles thwarting evil at every turn, but tonight even he’s too weary to pick a fight. And Crawly seems…different, somehow, than other demons he’s met. He’d cracked jokes with him on the Wall, after all. Aziraphale had been under the impression that demons hated jokes. And he’d been surprisingly interesting to talk to, so…maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try striking up conversation again. They still don’t know each other very well, but it’s so miserable in the mountains that Aziraphale finds he’d very much appreciate the company, even if it is from a demon.

“Crawly?”

“…Aziraphale, was it?” Crawly turns to look at him as Aziraphale’s elephant practically collapses next to his. His snake eyes are bright in the growing dusk. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“This is your doing, isn’t it?” Aziraphale scolds. “This dreadful war…”

“No actually – the humans thought this one all up themselves. Turns out hating each other is more important than ‘don’t kill thy neighbor’, or whatever. I’m just here to make sure they don’t settle easily for something silly like ‘peace’.” Crawly eyes him. “What are you doing here?”

“Well I’m trying to _end_ this war for something silly like peace, and make sure Hannibal doesn’t overexert his poor soldiers.” Aziraphale glances around the campground, where just about every head is hanging in pure exhaustion. The temperature has dipped suddenly, and all around them snowflakes are starting to fall. “I mean, look at those poor souls! They hardly even know what they’re fighting for anymore.”

To his surprise, Crawly doesn’t argue any further. Glancing back at him, Aziraphale finds that the demon has slid right off of his elephant and is sitting half-propped up on the ground, his head lolling to the side.

Aziraphale tries to hide his alarm. “Crawly?”

“Why _elephants_?” Crawly hisses. “They’re worse than horses.”

“…Are you quite alright?”

“Do I _look_ alright?” He doesn’t, actually – he looks down right ghoulish. And he’s _shivering_.

Aziraphale stumbles off his elephant. “Was it riding the elephant? I’ve heard that the rocking motion can make some people quite sick—”

“No, no, n-not really.” Crawly wraps his arms tightly around himself, his teeth chattering. “It’s just t-too _cold_.”

“Cold?” He supposes it is, really – snow is starting to fall after all. But both he and Crawly are tightly wrapped in thick garments, and it’s not like there’s a blizzard or temperatures in the negatives. “But it’s hardly even—”

“I’m a _snake_ , s-snakes don’t do well in c-cold weather,” Crawly hisses.

He promptly collapses.

“Oh, dear—” Aziraphale starts to reach for him, to do what he isn’t sure, when something strange happens.

He’s seen Crawly shift from snake form to human form, of course, but that had seemed like a controlled thing, a smooth transition from one form to the other. This, however, is like a slow melting; it’s like his entire body dissolves and loses its shape. His arms and legs meld into themselves as his skin shifts and is replaced entirely with scales.

Before Aziraphale can so much as blink, a red-bellied black snake is splayed out before him.

“…Crawly?”

He doesn’t receive an answer. Can snakes even talk? Well, regular snakes can’t of course, but demon snakes? Regardless, it appears as though Crawly is still very much unconscious, as his eyes are closed and his flanks are dangerously still, hardly rising and falling with his breath.

Aziraphale panics.

Reptiles aren’t common in Heaven. Aziraphale, of course, _knows_ of reptiles—he knows of all of Her creations, and he’s been aware of Crawly for a while now—but that doesn’t mean he knows anything _about_ them. He knows they need a source of external warmth because they can’t maintain their own internal temperature, but that’s about it. Crawly never talks about it, and Aziraphale, up until this point, had never seen Crawly’s reptilian form again. He’d thought he’d been a bigger snake, before, but now he’s only about a meter long, and Aziraphale isn’t sure if it’s because Crawly has to expend energy to make himself larger or if there’s something seriously _wrong_. He just doesn’t know enough about him to figure anything out.

So, quite frankly, he doesn’t know _what_ to do to help the comatose snake at his feet.

He does the first thing he can think of – he grabs him and tosses him down his shirt.

Crawly hardly reacts to this—so he _must_ be unconscious—and just lets his body drape loosely over Aziraphale’s shoulders, moving only to snuggle his head near Aziraphale’s heart, where angels are warmest. It’s an odd feeling, having a large snake wrapped so solidly around him, but at least Crawly shouldn’t _die_ – angels have a higher inner temperature than humans, so he should be a sufficient temporary heat source for Crawly. And, this way, Aziraphale can go about his duties without worrying that he has to hold him in place.

…Right. So. Now he just needs to find a more permanent source of warmth, and perhaps then Crawly will regain consciousness.

Easier said than done when he’s stranded with a large human army in the middle of the Alps. 

In the end, Aziraphale has to keep Crawly in his shirt for an uncomfortably long time, as it takes ten days to reach Italy.

It’s fortunate that Crawly is unconscious for most of it. He wakes up every once in a while, mumbling gibberish in the ancient tongue, before falling comatose again. It worries Aziraphale that the warmth of his body isn’t enough to make Crawly regain consciousness, but perhaps the fact that they’re fighting out in the snow is making the temperature as a whole rather cold still.

He needs to get him somewhere inside, where he can build a warm fire.

Hannibal grants his soldiers another well-deserved rest after they reach Italy, during which Aziraphale slips away to find shelter. It doesn’t take him long to find a house—abandoned even without divine intervention due to the bloodiness of the war—and he hurries inside. Through no small miracle, there’s still hot water flowing through the pipes under the roofs and floors, so the house is blessedly warm. To help matters along, Aziraphale builds a small fire in the pit on the floor and sits as close to it as he dares.

Even then, it takes a while for Crawly to wake up. Aziraphale spends the time worrying he was too late, that Crawly _did_ die somewhere along the way and he just can’t tell. A little voice inside him wonders why he even cares if he does die; isn’t he supposed to be fighting and killing the adversary?

But Aziraphale ultimately ignores it. He may be against demons in principle, but he’s never thought they should _die_. Dying is a terrible ordeal – there’s so much paperwork involved! He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Luckily, Crawly is spared that horrible fate.

Much later, when the fire has thoroughly heated the room, Crawly shifts against Aziraphale’s skin. He freezes for a second, as if startled, and then spills out of Aziraphale’s shirt and onto the floor next to him, morphing back into human form as he goes. He sits there for a moment, groggily staring at Aziraphale, before saying, “What the Heaven, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale glances back at him and huffs. “Well what was I _supposed_ to do? You would’ve frozen to death, otherwise.”

“What you were _supposed_ to do was leave me to freeze to death.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth and then closes it again. Crawly’s right, ultimately – Heaven would’ve been very happy if he had just left Crawly there to die. But the very thought of it is so appalling that Aziraphale can hardly stand it. He says quietly, “I couldn’t leave you there to die.”

Crawly blinks at him – he looks taken aback. Perhaps he should be; after all, any other angel, Aziraphale’s sure, would’ve left him to die. Aziraphale’s horribly worried he’s going to ask him about it, ask him why he’s different—which is a terrifying question that Aziraphale isn’t quite ready to answer yet—but Crawly just sits there, mulling something over in his head.

“…Is the war at least over?” Crawly says after a beat of silence, and Aziraphale lets out a relieved breath of a laugh.

He supposes that’s as close as he’ll get to a thank you.

**_880 AD – Iceland_ **

Aziraphale has never really liked boats. The rocking motion has always made him feel like what he assumes feeling ‘ill’ feels like for humans; stomach churning, unbalanced, a throbbing pain in his head. The travel time always feels endless, and since they’re out in the middle of the ocean they can’t even be guaranteed a supply restock, which means _rationing_. Aziraphale detests rationing. Not to mention that boats always make him think of that dreadful Ark business. Truly awful. He’d almost prefer elephants.

But sometimes his job requires it, so here Aziraphale is, glumly attempting to eat a measly herring on a Viking ship as the fleet heads for Iceland. He hasn’t left his quarters much, too sick to feel like he can make the journey, but he’s starting to feel like the walls are closing in on him, so he stumbles his way up top for some fresh air.

It’s just after dawn, the sun’s warm rays just starting to heat up the deck, so he’s surprised to see someone else out here, watching the sunrise. Aziraphale has to squint in the gloom, and even when he recognizes the figure he doubts it’s really him.

“Crawly?” 

The demon turns, snake eyes wide. There’s a small smirk in the corner of his mouth as Aziraphale approaches him. 

“It’s Crowley now,” he corrects. He waves off Aziraphale’s stumbled attempt at an apology, even though this is not the first time he’s had to correct him. “What in Someone’s name are you doing out here, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’ve been feeling quite ill this entire journey – I thought some fresh air might do me some good.”

Crawly—no, _Crowley_ —stares at him for a moment before snapping his fingers. Instantly, Aziraphale’s nausea is gone and his headache eased somewhat. He still doesn’t feel quite normal, but it’s better. He smiles widely, pleasantly surprised. “Oh Crowley, thank—”

“I meant what are you doing on this ship?” Crowley cuts over him loudly. He never has been good at accepting gratitude.

Aziraphale hides the remains of his smile in his shirt collar. “Well, I was sent to kindly suggest to the Vikings that they should move to Iceland and stop tormenting people, like those poor English folks. I’m supposed to come along and make sure things go smoothly and that they don’t disturb the other settlers.” 

“Huh.” Crowley looks like he’s trying not to grin. “Funny – I was sent here to convince them to, instead of taking any available land, steal it from the people who’ve already settled here.”

“B-but there’s plenty of unoccupied land for the taking!” Aziraphale stutters. “I mean, half of the island isn’t even—”

“Yeah, but it’s more fun to _steal_ , don’t you think?” Crowley says, letting loose his grin.

“No!” Aziraphale stops to think. “Well, I suppose your lot would think that way, but… _no_.”

Crowley shrugs. “Just doing my job – just as you’re doing yours.”

“And yet neither of us are accomplishing anything with the other around,” Aziraphale sighs.

“True. We’re supposed to get there around noon, want to just get lunch?”

…Aziraphale has always had a hard time turning down food. And the food on the boat was quite awful.

…He’s sure his job can wait for a little while.

The weather is surprisingly warm when they arrive and step off the boat. It’s still a bit chilly, however, and Crowley looks a little pale, so Aziraphale ushers him to the nearest tavern they can find. That’s the one good thing about Vikings – even when they’re in the beginning stages of settlement, they always make sure building a tavern is high up on the list of priorities.

This is not the first time Aziraphale has had a meal with Crowley—he never will forget the lovely oysters they’d had together in Rome—but it’s not something they’ve done a lot. Crowley knows by now how much of a sucker Aziraphale is for food, something in hindsight that Aziraphale perhaps should’ve tried to hide from him, but he himself isn’t much of an eater so they don’t dine together often. Also, there’s the whole mortal enemies thing, so really they shouldn’t be dining together often _anyway_.

But as the years go by, Aziraphale terrifyingly finds himself caring less and less about the fact that he’s not supposed to be hanging around Crowley. He enjoys the demon’s company, though he will never admit it to anyone, and they’ve become…something. Acquaintances. Not friends, surely.

Though they do have a startling amount of things in common.

Like, for example, their mutual love of alcohol.

“Have you ever tried this stuff?” Crowley asks, waving his enormous glass of bright red hibiscus mead in Aziraphale’s general direction. “Bloody fantastic.”

“No, I’m more of a wine person myself,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley hums and continues waving the mead towards Aziraphale; it takes Aziraphale a while to realize that Crowley is offering him to try some. He takes the glass gently, sniffs the drink, and takes a tentative sip. He’s genuinely surprised by how sweet the flavor is, and he finds himself smiling widely as he hands the drink back. “My, I never realized mead could be sweet! That’s quite delicious, thank you.”

“See? Told you.” Crowley takes a huge gulp of his drink. “What kind of wines do you like?”

“Well, anything’s fine to stay warm and not be conscious for a while—” Crowley laughs at this, “—but I especially love Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

“Huh, you surprisingly have good taste – I always thought angels were uptight about this kind of stuff. Though, actually, I don’t think I’ve heard of an angel drinking alcohol at all.”

“Well, _I_ do,” Aziraphale says, slightly miffed. “But I suppose it’s true it’s uncommon – Gabriel despises the stuff, and Michael is constantly calling it the ‘devil’s water’—”

He cuts off as Crowley starts smirking at him strangely. “…What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Crowley turns away. “You’re pretty okay, for an angel.”

Aziraphale scowls at him. “And _you’re_ pretty nice, for a demon.”

Crowley scowls back. “I resent that.”

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” the bartender asks, joining them a little later.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” they both say, and turn to share a small smile.

\--

It’s nighttime the next time Aziraphale is sober enough to notice. He can’t believe he and Crowley have been sitting here drinking solidly for that long, but it’s been a while since he’s gotten to indulge with someone who can keep up with him, so he got a bit carried away. Perhaps Crowley had felt the same. He realizes, though, that this can only end badly for Crowley: it may have been relatively warm earlier in the day, but with the sun set it’s going to be absolutely freezing outside.

He glances at Crowley in concern. “Are you going to be alright out there?”

Crowley squints at him, still a little drunk. “What? Of course I am—”

Someone opens the door of the tavern suddenly and a gust of freezing cold wind surges into the room.

“Bugger,” Crowley hisses, and the next thing Aziraphale knows the demon is in snake form, unconscious and spilling almost completely off of his stool. Apparently being inebriated doesn’t improve Crowley’s ability to hold onto his human form.

At least Aziraphale is much better prepared this time to deal with it. He hurriedly slips him into his shirt, miracles some money onto the counter for the tavern keeper, and rushes outside to find lodging.

Miraculously, there’s a just-finished turf house nearby that’s been abandoned by the owners for the night in favor of getting drunk at the tavern. Aziraphale hurries inside, shuts the door firmly behind him to keep as much of the heat inside as possible, and gets to work building a fire in the small firepit in the kitchen. He notices that Crowley’s tight grip around his torso loosens marginally as they step out of the cold.

“Why _do_ you change back into a snake whenever it’s too cold, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks later when Crowley wakes up again. Aziraphale hasn’t quite gotten the fire going as much as he’d wanted to, so it’s warm enough for Crowley to regain conscious, but apparently not enough for him to return to human form, as he slithers out of Aziraphale’s shirt and just curls up on the floor next to him.

Or maybe he’s just drunk still.

“I’m inherently reptilian,” Crowley says drowsily. “When I fell, I guessssss the humanoid ssssshape of my body sssssort of… _fell_ , too.”

“Are all demons that way?” Aziraphale asks, adding more wood to the fire.

“Kinda – no one elssse’sss a sssssnake, though. Ligur’ssss a lizzzard, but Beelzzzebub’ssss like a sssswarm of fliessss. Real grossss. Pretty sssssure Hassstur’sssss jusssst a pile of horsssessshit.”

Aziraphale doesn’t mean to laugh, but a snort escapes him anyway.

He pointedly ignores Crowley’s sleepy snake grin. 

“But anyway, I guesssss I’m sssssstill technically cold-blooded, and it’sssss _hard_ keeping it warm all winter – it’ssss like human clothessss were made for reptilesssss to freezzze to death.”

“They weren’t made for reptiles at _all_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale says, but he shifts him closer to the fire. 

“Well they ssssshould be,” Crowley sniffs. “Anyway, yeah, when it getssss cold, poof! Sssssnake I become.”

“That sounds inconvenient,” Aziraphale hums. “What do you do when you’re… _tempting_ humans? They’d be quite startled if you suddenly turned into a snake in front of them.”

“I try to ssssstay inssssside. Or not go anywhere in winter at all. I’d be asssssleep right now if Hasssstur didn’t have it out for me.”

“What a surprise – demons not trusting other demons,” Aziraphale says drily. 

“Sssshut it.” Crowley flicks his tail at him irritably. “Anyway, Hasssstur thinksssss I’m not doing enough… _big_ temptationsssss, so the basssstard went and recommended me for thissss job right assssss I wassssss getting ready to ssssssleep. I mean, who doessssss that?”

“A demon,” Aziraphale presses. “A demon would do that.”

“…You’re a bit of a bassstard yourssself though, aren’t you?” Crowley says, and finally shifts back into human form. He sits on the floor for a moment, shaking each hand and foot one at a time as if he needs to try them out. “It’s _disorienting_ having limbs again. Remind me not to drink when I shift into a snake – being a drunk reptile without any limbs was not a fun experience.”

“Maybe you should just avoid cold places in the future, then,” Aziraphale says stingily, offended by the bastard comment. “And I’m not a bastard, I’m an angel.”

Crowley grins widely. “Not much of a difference, is there?”

“Well, if you’re well enough to make rude remarks like that, I suppose there’s no point in me sticking around.” Aziraphale stands and huffily dusts the dirt off of his trousers. “Don’t expect any help from me the next time you’re an unconscious snake!”

“Oh please, you can’t help yourself – you hate seeing people sick or in pain.”

It’s startling to Aziraphale that Crowley knows this about him. “You’re not a person, you’re a demon.”

Crowley huffs and shrugs. “Fine, have it your way. But don’t expect any help from _me_ when you’re in a bind, either.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale says, and miracles himself away. 

**_1532 – Andean Mountains (Inca Empire)_ **

As with most promises that are made in the heat of the moment, it doesn’t quite end up that way. Because Crowley was right – Aziraphale can’t stand seeing someone injured, or unconscious, or what have you, even if that someone is a demon. And Crowley losing hold of his human form and shifting into a snake ends up being a much more common problem than Aziraphale had ever imagined it would.

He supposes it makes some sense—most parts of the world are cold for a good half of the year—but Aziraphale thought that Crowley would follow the sun, or at least nap for a good portion of it. Instead he pops up in the strangest places, and usually his reason for being there is rather shaky. It’s quite odd.

But Aziraphale would be lying if he said he minded it.

It is a little concerning though that he’s starting to pick out his shirts based on which ones would be the comfiest for Crowley to curl up in.

But it turns out that Crowley ends up breaking his word too, as he comes to help Aziraphale one day about 700 years later.

Or, at least, he tries to.

It all starts in a small village in western Bolivia. 

Aziraphale was sent to the Inca Empire to encourage the elites to welcome the Spaniards as ‘liberators’, rather than ‘conquerors’, a task that leaves a sour taste in his mouth even as he does it. _It’ll prevent a lot of unnecessary bloodshed!_ his superiors had said, which he supposes is true at least, but it still doesn’t seem very heavenly to allow one country to take over another. Not to mention that plenty of people are dying anyway because of all of the horrible diseases the Spaniards are bringing with them.

Aziraphale doesn’t care that the Spanish belong to the House of God – it’s a lot easier to believe that that’s righteous when you’re not on the ground watching innocent people die.

It’s his guilt from playing a part in bringing the Spaniards here and his kind heart that, as always, get him into trouble.

He’d wandered into the village because he could sense the death from miles away, sickness clogging the air like smog. It was worse than he could’ve imagined: children completely covered with bumps and rashes from smallpox, adults shut up in bed with shuddering coughs that sounded like their lungs were being torn apart, the potent smell of vomit and diarrhea throughout the place. It was horrifying. He’d just wanted to help people.

He hadn’t realized that the village is currently acting as a base where the Inca troops are reorganizing.

Aziraphale has just finished treating one house and is moving onto the next when he’s suddenly surrounded by a group of men with spears.

“Uh,” he says, smiling nervously. “Hello. I’m just a doctor, passing through—”

“Filthy Spaniard,” a man growls as he points a hardwood spear directly into Aziraphale’s face. “How dare you come here!”

“Oh, I assure you, I’m not from Spain,” Aziraphale says, shying back from the sharp point, only to feel another one press into his back. “My Spanish is _dreadful_ , I’m afraid.”

“Don’t think we’ll fall for your lies!” the warrior behind him hisses.

“Oh really, you are all being quite dramatic—” He attempts to move past them and the Inca warriors quickly tighten their circle around him.

“Stay where you are!” a man barks, and then jerks his head to another warrior. “Get something to tie him up with – we’ll use him as a bargaining chip with the Spanish.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m afraid that won’t get you much of anywhere—”

Crowley suddenly saunters into the circle, seemingly from nowhere. He’s wearing the same traditional armor that the Inca warriors are wearing: a gray tunic made out of cloth, a gold metal breastplate, and a wooden helmet. The only difference is that Crowley’s helmet has a ridiculously tall sharp-shinned hawk feather sticking out of the top. Aziraphale is unreasonably glad to see him. “Listen, guys, it’s fine, he’s with me—”

High up in the Andes is not a warm place, especially not this time of year. Aziraphale had just been wondering how Crowley was faring so well when a fiercely cold breeze suddenly blows in, dropping the temperature even further, and Crowley’s mouth snaps shut. “Uh—”

He at least has the decency to freeze time for a second before he collapses into snake form. Aziraphale bends to scoop him up into his arms and place him gently down his shirt, where Crowley wraps around him sleepily, and then time resumes.

The Inca warriors glance around, confused. “…Was someone saying something?”

Everyone looks at each other. The man with the spear pointed at Aziraphale’s face shrugs and says, “Whatever, let’s just imprison this bastard.”

They make quick work of tying him up and marching him somewhere further in the village. Even though Aziraphale is walking at a good pace to keep up with them, some of the warriors continuously jab him with their spears anyway, occasionally poking at Crowley, too. Aziraphale worries they’re hurting him, but Crowley is apparently too unconscious to care, as he doesn’t even flinch when he’s struck.

It doesn’t seem like a good sign. Hopefully the place the Incas are taking Aziraphale is warm.

“At least this one wasn’t riding a horse,” one man grumbles next to him as they walk.

“Oh, I agree – riding a horse is quite unpleasant,” Aziraphale says, and is slightly put out when the man just glares at him.

The warriors lead him into a stone building carved out of the mountainside with long and narrow corridors, and take him down a dark stairway etched into the wall along the mountain. The stones are built so concisely that not even light is shining through the gaps between them, and thus they seem to also be fairly effective at keeping the heat in, especially the lower down they go. 

When they reach the lowest level, the warmth is shocking. Aziraphale feels Crowley wake up, his body slithering along his skin as he shifts and drowsily pokes his head out of Aziraphale’s collar. “What’sssss happening…?”

“They’re arresting me,” Aziraphale whispers back to him, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. “And planning to use me as a bargaining chip.”

“Oh, for the love of—” He breaks off as the guard turns back to look at Aziraphale strangely. Crowley quickly darts his head back down.

“Get in there!” the guard growls at the end of the hallway, pointing his spear crudely into a small dungeon room.

Aziraphale walks through the doorway, and the iron door is shut heavily behind him. The guard grumbles to himself as he locks the door, and then his footsteps head off back down the hallway.

As soon as he’s gone, Aziraphale bursts out laughing.

“Sssssshut up,” Crowley hisses from inside his shirt. “Ssssssee if I ever try to ressssscue you again!”

But Aziraphale just laughs harder. “Was that your idea of assistance? What were you planning to do, exactly, hiss at them?”

“I’ll have you know I’m _venomoussss_!” Crowley hisses, pushing his head and upper body out of Aziraphale’s collar and turning to glare at him. “And I’m not above biting _you_.”

“You wouldn’t bite me, you’re much too _nice_ ,” Aziraphale coos, tapping Crowley’s nose.

“I can’t believe you – I literally can’t believe you!” Crowley recoils like he was the one that was bit. “You try to help a friend out and all he doesss issss inssssult you!”

“Friend?” Aziraphale blinks, surprised.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Have you ssstill not figured that out yet? Don’t tell me you’re ssstill in denial.”

“No, well, I mean, not fully, I just—” Crowley stares at him, unimpressed, and Aziraphale clears his throat. “It just…surprised me. I’ve never really had a friend before.”

“I…haven’t either,” Crowley admits.

They stare at each other uncomfortably for a long time.

“…Well, how long are you planning on sssstaying in thissss cccell?” Crowley finally says after a moment.

The change of topic is a relief. “I thought you were enjoying the warmth, my dear.”

Crowley starts at the term of endearment, but ultimately ignores it. “Well, it issss nicccce, but what if they come after you with thosssse ssssspearsss again?”

“Then I’ll have my brave, snake friend to protect me!” Aziraphale says brightly.

“I take it back – you are actually the worssssst ever,” Crowley growls, but he blinks and suddenly they’re outside.

They’re standing on a mountaintop looking down into the valley where the village is located. It’s considerably colder up here, so Crowley shrinks back further into Aziraphale’s shirt until only his head is poking out.

“It’sssss too bad – I rather liked the Inca Empire,” Crowley says as he and Aziraphale watch the Spanish army march in.

“Me too – they made quite a delicious potato and vegetable soup.”

Crowley tilts his head up; Aziraphale can feel his tongue flick against his chin. “Do you think of anything bessssidessss food?”

Aziraphale pouts. “Of course I do, food is just one of Earth’s wonders. And I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Ssssee? What would you have done without me?” Crowley’s voice is triumphant. “Sssstarved to death, that’ssss what.”

“I’m sure they would’ve fed me eventually,” Aziraphale insists.

“Oh, sssure, sssure, what would it be…porridge? The inedible bitsss of a fisssh? Ssssome of that _clay_? Oh, or maybe—”

“ _Please_ stop, I beg of you, this is _torture_.”

Crowley cackles. “Alright, alright, let’ssss hurry up and go eat then.”

Aziraphale brightens considerably. “Excellent! What do snakes have a… _craving_ for?”

“Miccccce,” Crowley says. Aziraphale makes a vague noise of disgust. “Oh, I don’t know, demonssss don’t really eat all that much.”

“Oh, well, then I _must_ tempt you to—” Aziraphale flinches as Crowley turns to stare at him. “Oh dear, I said it again, didn’t I?”

“You’re getting quite good at tempting, angel,” Crowley says delightedly, a grin on his reptilian face.

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale huffs. There’s something warm threatening to just explode right out of him, and he doesn’t think it’s entirely because of the new nickname. “We’ll go get crepes, then.”

**_1812 – Russia_ **

In the early days of the Arrangement, Aziraphale doesn’t see much of Crowley. There’s no reason for them to both be in the same place, after all. He wonders if he’s foolish for wishing there was one.

He probably is. But it does get rather lonely sometimes being one of two supernatural beings on Earth.

He certainly isn’t having as much trouble with the Arrangement as he thought he would, though. Taking over some of Crowley’s duties is…easier than Aziraphale is comfortable admitting. Once he got over the initial uneasiness at the idea that he’s _tempting someone_ , it’s actually kind of…fun. Mostly because what he ends up doing can be classified as pranks: he’ll whisper in people’s ears that _sure_ , of course one bite _can’t hurt_ , or make people believe that washed-to-sea coffins reappearing elsewhere are the works of the devil, and thus that the devil exists and should be followed. He isn’t sure if the nature of these tasks is specific to Crowley or if it’s how all demons function, but it’s really not as bad as Aziraphale had imagined. And performing temptations are often a lot more creative and interesting than the blessings he usually has to do. And easier; it’s depressing how much easier it is to corrupt someone than to nudge them towards the light. He tries his best not to think about what all of that means for his own character.

There are a lot of things involving Crowley that are just easier not to think about.

At least he can take some comfort from the fact that, though he’s long since gotten used to his minor temptations, there are some things that are just hard to watch. Accidentally causing the Russo-Persian War hadn’t been easy to stomach, for example, nor had watching a minor temptation morph into the opium crisis. But he sticks to the Arrangement because Crowley has stuck to his side of the bargain and, really, it _is_ easier to not have to fight Crowley at every turn.

Doesn’t stop him from looking out for him, though.

And it’s not like he runs into Crowley infrequently – quite the opposite, actually. Like obviously they meet up to discuss who is and is not going where, but they end up in the same location more often than not, anyway. So much so that it’s probably not a coincidence.

Aziraphale adds that tidbit to the list of things involving Crowley that are just easier not to think about.

He prides himself in his ability to shove feelings and thoughts so deeply inside of himself that it’s almost like they don’t exist at all. It’s a vital precaution measure, after all – it can be dangerous to do things like overthink his orders or fall in love with—that is, _befriend_ a demon. It’s how Aziraphale protects himself, and without it he isn’t sure what he would do.

He finds out unfortunately quickly.

It all falls to pieces when Aziraphale runs into a Black Knight during Napoleon’s march on the Russians, which feels vaguely familiar.

He’s rather proud of enticing the march, actually – convincing Napoleon to try and liberate Poland from Russia by tempting him to get Russia to stop trading with the British was a stroke of genius, if he does say so himself. He feels like he’s finally getting the grasp of doing ‘good’ and ‘bad’ at the same time. Though really, most historical events end up being ‘good’ and ‘bad’, depending on what information is available and who’s looking at it.

But he thinks he did a pretty good job, so there’s really no reason for a Black Knight That is Likely Crowley to come stumbling out of the woods while Napoleon’s army is resting on the snowy banks of the Russian side of the Berezina River.

“ _Crowley?!_ ” Aziraphale demands incredulously.

The Black Knight startles and turns. Upon seeing Aziraphale, he lifts his visor, and sure enough, yellow snake eyes blaze back at him. “Aziraphale! Fancy running into you here!”

“What are you doing here? I thought I was covering the French march on Russia,” Aziraphale says, and ignores the fierce rush of joy at seeing Crowley again.

“You _are_ , it’s just—” Crowley trails off and clicks his tongue, not looking at him. “This is a big one, and Hell needs a lot more from it than just some minor temptations.”

“Well, you could’ve asked me, I’m sure I could’ve handled it—”

“ _No_ , you couldn’t have, that’s what I’m trying to tell you! I saw what the Russo-Persian War did to you.” Crowley turns away, kicks at the ground. Bristling, Aziraphale starts to say something, but Crowley cuts over him, “Look, you must think it’s all fun and games being a demon, based on what I’ve asked you to do. But those…those are just day to day things I do to get away from having to do the big parts of my job. The… _nasty_ stuff. Trust me, angel, you _really_ don’t want to see what’s happening next. _I_ don’t want you to see what happens next. I…I don’t want you to turn out like me.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say, how to process everything Crowley just told him. “…I would never think Hell was just fun and games.”

Crowley scoffs loudly. “Never mind, I should’ve known you wouldn’t get it—”

“I do get it – I’m not as stupid as you seem to think I am,” Aziraphale snaps.

“I don’t think you’re _stupid_ , you’re just—”

“Your friend.” Crowley gapes at him, so Aziraphale squares his shoulders and tilts his chin up. “I’m your friend. And I don’t think you should have to face Hell alone.”

Crowley just stares at him for such a long time that Aziraphale doesn’t think he’ll say anything at all. But then he shakes himself and says quietly, “Look, just…do me a favor and take off when Napoleon reaches Borodino, alright? I…I can handle the rest.”

Aziraphale wonders, suddenly, if Crowley really can. It had never occurred to him before that demons may not actually always be comfortable with what they have to do. Before Crowley, he had always just assumed that demons were horrid and evil and didn’t have any doubts about the monstrosities they were committing.

But Crowley is different. Crowley’s considerate, curious, eager to make a bad joke. He enjoys talking to smart humans and looking after kids. He has helped Aziraphale countless of times, even when he’s supposed to be somewhere else. Aziraphale can hardly even imagine what Crowley is like in the face of such tragedies as he seems to be suggesting is about to occur.

He wonders how much of the job Crowley’s been keeping from him.

But they both have their duties, and Crowley looks so miserable that Aziraphale can’t turn down his offer. Maybe he’ll check in on him afterwards, take him out for a nice dinner, make sure he’s okay.

It’s the least he can do.

“…Alright,” Aziraphale says finally. He smiles, a small, sad, unsure thing. “Crowley, you really are quite—”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley barks and slams his helmet back down. “You owe me a buffet of oysters for this.”

“I told you you would like them,” Aziraphale says smugly, relieved at the lighter topic. He’s bragged about getting Crowley into oysters since 41 AD.

Crowley just shakes his head, fondly exasperated as always. He joins in with Napoleon’s army as the soldiers move onward, sticking close to Aziraphale like he’s afraid that he won’t follow through with his request. It’s nice not to be so isolated anymore, so Aziraphale doesn’t point it out.

They’re marching solidly along for a good twenty minutes before something that should’ve been glaringly obvious suddenly occurs to Aziraphale. He stalls in his tracks, soldiers parting around him like waves. “Wait a moment… Crowley, how are you maintaining your human form in this dreadful cold?”

Crowley stops and, lifting up his visor, glances back at him. “Oh, well, that’s…” He gestures incomprehensibly for a moment before finally saying, “You know how demons can withstand hellfire? Well, it turns out that if I try hard enough, I can produce that internally and stay warm enough to not turn into a snake every two bloody seconds.”

He grins crookedly. “Handy, don’t you think?”

It’s silent for a moment.

Then, loudly enough for both Heaven and Hell to hear, Aziraphale shouts, “You mean you could do that all along?!”

Crowley shrugs, shakes his head, acts so awkwardly that Aziraphale can’t tell _what_ he’s trying to tell him through his body language. “Well, I really _do_ need to get going angel, Russians to tempt, and all that.”

And then he saunters away as quickly as his uncooperative legs and heavy armor can take him.

Aziraphale gapes after him for a ridiculously long time. If Crowley has the ability to keep himself in human form in this cold of a temperature, why had he let himself turn into a snake all of those other times? And why, then, _has Aziraphale kept him in his shirt all this time?!_

It makes no sense.

Unless…

…Oh, dear.

**_1911 – The South Pole_ **

Aziraphale doesn’t see Crowley again for another hundred years or so, because apparently Crowley had decided to take a century-long nap instead of risking running into Aziraphale and being forced to talk about what happened.

During this time, Aziraphale begins to doubt his suspicions. Surely he’s wrong – there’s no way a demon can love like an angel can. And really, what kind of fool _is_ he that he fell in love with a demon? Is he so desperate that he reads into even the littlest things that Crowley does?

Though, he has to admit, crawling into someone else’s shirt when you don’t have to is a very strange thing to do, even for Crowley. And it has happened so often that Aziraphale, up until this point, hadn’t even thought twice about the fact that Crowley spends an inordinate amount of time in his shirt. Aziraphale hadn’t minded it as much as now he realizes maybe he should’ve.

What is Crowley trying to achieve, anyway? It can’t be anything good.

But deep down, Aziraphale knows he doesn’t believe that. Crowley may not have been a good angel, but he isn’t a good demon, either.

He resolves to ask Crowley about it the next time he sees him. Most of his being shies away from the idea of confronting him, as Aziraphale has spent a very, _very_ long time avoiding even thinking about the subject, but he can’t really avoid it now. He has to know, or he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand it.

His chance comes in the early 20th century in one of the coldest regions on Earth – the South Pole.

Aziraphale had heard about Amundsen’s plans to sail to the South Pole a few years previously and hadn’t been able to ignore his curiosity. He’s been nearly everywhere on Earth—everywhere there are people, anyway—and the idea of exploring an _entirely uninhabited_ region of the Earth is exhilarating. Even more exhilarating is the idea of _being there_ to witness humanity’s first steps into this new place. 

So, even though only four people were supposed to be on the expedition originally—and no one besides Amundsen should’ve actually _known_ that he’s planning on going to the South Pole instead of the Arctic—Aziraphale carves out a space for himself on the journey.

He just isn’t expecting to miracle himself there and find Crowley already standing with the expedition team.

They both raise an eyebrow at each other, the usual question of _What are you doing here?_ unnecessary to say out loud this time.

“Vacation,” they say at the same time, and share a knowing smile.

“A snake vacationing in the South Pole,” Aziraphale says as the team sets out on dog sleds. “Now that’s something to write home about.”

“It brings a bit of excitement into my existence. Never know when I’m going to lose my grip on my human body, you know?” Crowley clenches his jaw against the cold. “I thought holy water was bad, but I bet holy _ice_ is even worse.”

“Don’t give head office any ideas,” Aziraphale mutters, wondering if She even looks down on places like this. They haven’t really been on speaking terms since the whole flaming sword incident.

They ride onwards. Aziraphale keeps expecting to see something, _anything_ to show that they’re actually going anywhere, but it’s all the same – never-ending whiteness. He and Crowley slow to a stop after a while, letting the rest of the team leave them behind.

“…I wanted to see it,” Crowley says after they’ve just been looking for a while. “I couldn’t imagine an Earth without humans, so I wanted to see it for myself.”

And it’s beautiful—with its pure white landscape contrasted against a bright blue sky—but it’s not the Earth they know. It’s not the Earth they watched grow from infancy; it’s not the Earth they’ve both come to love so much. Here, there are no markets with ancient tomes to visit, there are no children playing in the streets, there are no bookshops or restaurants or wineries or botanical gardens or _people._ There’s just ice. And the occasional snow petrel.

Aziraphale does like the snow petrels. But the rest of it feels like another world. It feels like the time Crowley took him to see Alpha Centauri – the vast amount of empty beauty surely would’ve dazzled some humans, but to Aziraphale it was a bit unnerving. Worlds are meant to be populated.

And Earth is supposed to be populated with people.

“…Could’ve been better,” Crowley sniffs, and Aziraphale realizes that they had been thinking the exact same thing. He feels such an intense love for him in that moment that it nearly knocks him backwards.

He supposes there’s no denying it now.

He tries to think of an Earth without Crowley, and realizes that he can’t do that, either. Crowley has always been his companion, his one constant throughout the ages as everyone else around him died, and he can’t imagine what life on Earth would’ve been like without him. Less fun, he’s sure.

And just like that, he’s made up his mind.

“Crowley,” he says, and it comes out of him with weight. “I want to talk about your hellfire.”

Crowley’s back stiffens, ever so slightly. “…You mean down in Hell?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Aziraphale continues staring straight ahead, even though every fiber of his being wants to look at Crowley, look at his face. He has a feeling Crowley will have a harder time telling him the truth if he’s looking at him. “I want to know how long you’ve been able to produce it.”

He sees Crowley’s jaw working out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t speak for a long time. “…I’ve always been able to.”

Aziraphale’s pulse thunders in his throat. “…I think you know what my next question is, my dear.”

Crowley swallows. “Say it.”

“Why did you let yourself transform so often? It must’ve been dangerous for you.”

“…It really _was_ an accident the first few times,” Crowley bites out after a pause. “I didn’t know my human form would be such a slippery thing to hold onto, and the cold surprised me enough that I couldn’t hold onto it. And then I was drunk that second time…”

“And after that?” Aziraphale demands.

“Well, it takes a lot of energy to maintain that internal hellfire you know, so it gets _exhausting_ maintaining it all winter, and, well…you’re warm,” Crowley finishes awkwardly.

It’s silent for a moment. Until that moment, Aziraphale isn’t sure he’s ever heard true silence before: in the Earth he knows, there are always birds or other animals, construction noises, car horns. But here, there’s nothing; not even ducks quacking.

No wonder Crowley doesn’t like it. Aziraphale knows he’s never liked being alone with his thoughts.

“…Is that all?” Aziraphale whispers.

“What else do you want me to say, angel?” Crowley snaps. “Do I have to have another reason?”

“If you truly don’t have another reason, if that’s all it is, then I won’t ask you again.” Aziraphale takes a deep, wet breath and finally turns to look at him. “But I want you to tell me the truth – all of it. Please.”

Crowley makes some incomprehensible noises for a moment before clenching his fists. “I—”

He abruptly falls to the ground, shifting into a snake as he does so. This part is so routine that Aziraphale doesn’t even have to think as he bends down and slips Crowley down his shirt. The hellfire must not be totally extinguished, as merely a second later Crowley pops his head out of Aziraphale’s collar with a loud, exasperated sigh. “Ah Hell, really flubbed that one up, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale chuckles, despite everything. “What happened?”

“You made me losssse focusss,” Crowley hisses. “Looking at me like that.”

Aziraphale smiles softly and rubs his thumb gently across the top of Crowley’s head. “I’m sorry, my dear. What were you trying to say?”

“Give me a sssecond – I want to look you in the eye for thisss.” Crowley ducks his head back down and slithers along Aziraphale’s body, crawling his way down his right arm. He curls himself there and then pokes his head out of Aziraphale’s sleeve. Aziraphale raises his arm a bit so they’re more face to face. Crowley’s tongue flicks out at him in a way that could almost seem _nervous_. “There…isss another reasssson. I didn’t—well, the way I feel about you isss—God—Sssatan— _Sssomeone_ —look. I just… I know you don’t think I can, but…I love you, Azzziraphale.”

And Aziraphale can’t help himself; he grins, something big and happy and warm. He couldn’t hold it back even if he tried, the relief in him so strong that he could swim in it. “Oh Crowley, I don’t believe that anymore.”

He feels Crowley tighten almost painfully around his arm. “Ex _cusssse_ me?”

“No, no, I meant I don’t believe you can’t love. Other demons, maybe, but not you. You’re different – you always have been.”

Crowley just stares at him. “Angel—”

“You know, when you first talked to me, back on the Wall, it was the first time anyone had really just sat down and _talked_ to me. Even other angels had never done that, but here you were, a snake-demon of all things, just coming up and cracking jokes and smiling at me. I thought, briefly, that God had made a mistake making you Fall.”

“Angel—”

“I felt so much shame for this thought that I immediately dismissed it. I tried to dismiss _you_ even, but you kept coming back, and I’m ever so grateful that you did. You know, every time you showed up, I—”

“ _Angel_.”

Aziraphale laughs. “I’m sorry my dear, I’m a bit giddy. I love you too, Crowley.”

“…Really?” Crowley blinks at him, slowly, his snake eyes even bigger in this form. “You’re not jussst sssaying that?”

“Why would I ‘just say’ something like that?” Aziraphale stares out at the white expanse all around them. Their expedition team had moved on at some point without them, a fact Aziraphale is glad for. “Earlier, I was trying to imagine an Earth without you, and I just couldn’t. I think I’d have a hard time imagining a me without you, as well. I’m not complete without you, Crowley. And I’m sorry it took me so long of you crawling into my shirt to realize it.”

Crowley just flaps his mouth open and closed at him for a bit. Just when Aziraphale thinks he’s finally going to say something, he suddenly tumbles out of his shirt sleeve. Aziraphale leaps to catch him—not sure what would happen if ice touched his snake skin—but Crowley changes back into human form before he hits the ground, apparently warm enough from how red his face is to sustain it. He kneels there on the cold ground, burying his face in his hands with a small, anguished groan.

Aziraphale laughs, relieved, and kneels down to kiss his cheek. “You are so easy to embarrass, my dear.”

“Shaddup – like you’re any better,” Crowley snaps, and turns to kiss him.

Aziraphale has read a lot, and he means a _lot_ , of books about kissing. Humans seem fascinated by the idea of it, about how connecting lips with the person you care for is the singular best moment in someone’s life. They see fireworks; sparks fly everywhere; heat rushes to every part of their body; they lose themselves entirely to the kiss.

This kiss is not like that. This kiss is clumsy; it’s Crowley biting his lip accidentally and muttering an apology. It’s Aziraphale not quite sure where to put his hands so he ends up half leaning on Crowley’s knees, half crouched on the ground. It’s neither of them having any idea what they’re doing, but what else is new.

He doesn’t see fireworks. Sparks do not fly. The only heat in him is the usual kind. He _does_ lose himself entirely in it, but mainly because he has to focus incredibly hard to get it right.

But it _does_ get the sentiment across, anyway.

“…Hm, maybe that’s more of a human thing,” Aziraphale says when they part, but he’s still smiling – he can’t seem to stop.

“You saying I’m a bad kisser?” Crowley spits, the blush still strong on his cheeks, but his grin says he didn’t find it very enthralling, either. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

Aziraphale laughs heartily. “And you’re quite nice, really.”

“I resent that – I may have to kiss you again for saying that.”

He does. It’s not really any better.

“Ah, enough of that,” Aziraphale says when they part, wiping Crowley’s spit from his mouth. He opens his arms wide. “Let’s just try this, instead.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow but, still grinning, folds himself into Aziraphale’s arms. They sit like that for a long time, nearly one being, delighting in the other’s warmth and closeness.

Now _this_ – this is much better. This is what they’re used to.

“Warm enough now?” Aziraphale asks, sometime later.

“I guess – still cold as Hell, though.”

“Then come – let’s leave before you lose hold of yourself again,” Aziraphale says, leaning back. “Where do you want to go?”

Crowley takes his hand. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale smiles, thinks for a second, and snaps his fingers.

**_Bonus: Day After Armageddon – Crowley’s Flat_ **

After that, Crowley spends most winters wrapped in Aziraphale’s shirt.

 _Thisss isss jussst easssier, angel,_ Crowley had said the first time Aziraphale teased him about it. He was a snake, so it was impossible to tell, but Aziraphale liked to believe that he had been blushing.

But to tell the truth, Aziraphale likes it a lot, too. After spending millennia worrying about Crowley and wondering what kind of trouble he was getting up to and if Hell was treating him badly, it’s nice to know where he is, to have him nearby. It’s comforting to have him draped across his shoulders, head nuzzled over his heart, tail occasionally flicking against his skin. The only downside really is that it has caused him to switch to baggier clothes for the winter, as humans tend to find it strange when he has a giant snake-shaped bulge underneath his shirt.

Aziraphale wonders sometimes if Crowley can really afford to essentially take all winter off, but whenever he asks, Crowley just blinks a sleepy eye at him and says that humans do enough that he can take credit for that it’s fine.

Aziraphale still worries—as he does—but he likes spending the time together, so he only brings it up once. He thinks Crowley likes it too, especially since he’s shown many times that he can do just fine in the winter if he puts the effort into it.

But Aziraphale doesn’t really understand how much effort it actually takes for Crowley to stay in human-form until they swap bodies.

They’re in Crowley’s flat.

It’s around 2 in the morning, and they have been drinking solidly for the last three or four hours. They’re sprawled out on Crowley’s bed, Crowley rambling on and on about something or other, Aziraphale not really listening. He’s been in Crowley’s bed often enough by now that he knows he could easily fall asleep here, but he’s wide awake, thinking.

Agnes Nutter’s prophecy burns a hole in his coat pocket.

“Crowley,” he says, placing a hand on the demon’s arm. Crowley stalls mid-ramble. “Can we sober up for a moment?”

“Aw, what’s the fun in that?” Crowley asks, but sobers up anyway.

“What do you think Agnes Nutter’s prophecy is about?” Aziraphale says when they’re sober. “I don’t like the sound of ‘playing with fire’.”

“Sounds like something Hell would do,” Crowley sniffs.

A horrible dread hits Aziraphale suddenly. He props himself up on his elbow and turns to look at Crowley. “…My dear, how much trouble do you think we’ll be in for…well, whatever it is that we did?”

Crowley opens his mouth and then closes it again. His pupils are narrow slits.

“Enough to die by flames?” Aziraphale tries.

“That wouldn’t work on—” Crowley stops completely as he finally gets what Aziraphale’s talking about. “Angel, they’ll—they’ll kill you.”

Aziraphale nods grimly.

Crowley’s lips peel back in a snarl and he starts to stand. “Not if I kill them first.”

“Wha— _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale grabs his arm, pulls him back down. “What are you doing? You can’t just challenge a million angels by yourself! I won’t allow you to destroy yourself!”

“Then what am I _supposed_ to do?!” Crowley snaps, and he sounds so, so miserable. “I thought I lost you once before Aziraphale, and I…I can’t go through that again.”

“I’m afraid Hell may come for you too, my dear.” Aziraphale stares back at him just as miserably before fumbling in his pocket for the prophecy. “Maybe—maybe Agnes can help us.”

Crowley snatches it from him before he can read it. “…‘Choose your faces wisely.’ Angel, that’s it.”

Aziraphale frowns. “You mean—”

Crowley holds out his hand. “Trade you?”

“Quite eager to get rid of your body, aren’t you?” Aziraphale eyes him suspiciously, but takes his hand.

The process of swapping over isn’t that jarring—it basically feels the same as when he’d had to fit himself into his original body—but it’s sure jarring once he _gets_ there. His soul feels like it doesn’t quite _fit_ right, like there’s some part of him that’s supposed to be one way but is instead jammed another way. He’s not sure what’s causing it exactly, but it’s _uncomfortable_. And his legs hurt.

Is this how Crowley feels all the time? How does he stand it?

“Cr—”

He can’t even get his name out. Being in Crowley’s body is so disorienting that Aziraphale immediately loses his grip on his human form and shifts into a snake. It’s not a feeling he can even begin to describe, so he’s starting to understand why Crowley had never bothered to try.

“…Oh, dear,” he says after a moment of stunned silence. “Sssssssilly me.”

Crowley snorts. “I told you it wasn’t easy, angel.”

“Well, I’m sssssorry if thissss issss a ssssstupid quesssstion, but how do I produccccce…. _hellfire_ , exactly?”

“Never mind, angel, it’s fine,” Crowley says, and abruptly grabs Aziraphale and stuffs him down his shirt.

“Oh!” Aziraphale squeaks, startled. And then, when he’s settled with warmth all around him, “ _Oh_.”

Crowley laughs. “And you were wondering why I want to hang out in your shirt all the time.”

“Thisss isss good and all,” Aziraphale says, resting his head instinctively over Crowley’s heart, “But I’m afraid I don’t know how to…sssswitch back. Can’t really march down to Hell like thisssss.”

“I mean, you could – no one would notice.”

Aziraphale hisses. “But how—how do you even _move_ like thissss?”

“You just do.” And damn him, he’s _enjoying_ this, isn’t he? “Don’t worry angel, I’ll teach you how to switch back.”

“Wait,” Aziraphale says. “Uh. Well. Thisss issss rather wonderful, sssso. Maybe…we could wait until morning?”

“Sure,” Crowley says, chuckling.

“…Crowley—”

“If you’re going to ask about the weird body stuff, yes I always feel that way, yes it fucking sucks, no I don’t need you to do anything about it. It’s fine. I’m used to it. Doubt there’s anything you can do about it anyway.”

Aziraphale flicks his tail against Crowley’s neck. “But—”

“It’s probably just because I Fell – seems to be the answer for everything else.”

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment. “You know I don’t mind if you ssshift into a ssssnake, even when it’sss not winter, right? I mean, sssince being human causssess you ssso much pain.”

“Eh, there’s pros and cons to each one – not having limbs isn’t all that great either.” Crowley pats Aziraphale’s head. “But thanks, angel. It means a lot that you care enough to worry.”

“I’ve alwaysss worried a bit too much, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says, and attempts to smile.

He’s not quite sure it translates well to his reptilian face, but Crowley is fluent in snake of course, so he seems to get the sentiment. He smiles, one of his rare ones that are so beautiful that Aziraphale is briefly upset that they’re body swapped so he can’t see it on Crowley’s face. “You’re worrying for the both of us – that’s a big job.”

“Oh pleasssse, don’t act like you’re alsssso not incredibly anxioussss.”

Crowley huffs. “You could’ve just accepted the attempt at comfort, but _whatever_.”

Aziraphale laughs and then relaxes again, letting his entire body sag against Crowley. “…I think we’ll be alright, you and me.”

“As alright as we can be,” Crowley agrees.

“I’ve been thinking…when all of thissss isss over, we sssshould leave London. Get a placcce of our own. Grow our own garden.”

“Eat apples?” Crowley says, the smirk audible in his voice.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Only if you tempt me to, my dear.”

“And I very much will, I promise you.”

Aziraphale smiles and nuzzles into Crowley’s skin. “What would you grow?”

Crowley spends the rest of the early morning thinking aloud and doing research, hundreds of pieces of paper with different plants on them floating around the room as he tries to decide what would actually have a chance at growing while also looking aesthetically pleasing (and being snake friendly, of course). Aziraphale dozes on and off as he talks, suddenly unbearably sleepy, but he’s warm and happy. Neither of them are thinking of the upcoming danger from their head offices anymore. They’re just thinking of their life together, the first life they can actually actively plan for themselves.

Aziraphale has made many mistakes in his life, and they both royally screwed up Armageddon, but falling in love with a snake-demon seems to be the one thing he got right.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kaoru_of_hakone) for daily yelling about good omens


End file.
